


Good Bones

by Northisnotup



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 14:25:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15910077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Northisnotup/pseuds/Northisnotup
Summary: Birthday fic for @highonthirium on twitter. Hank gets pampered and they discuss the next stage of their relationship.





	Good Bones

“I don’t think you know what you’re doing,” Hank grouses again, intentionally wiggling his hips against the comforter. Not hard enough to unseat Connor from his perch straddling Hank’s thighs, but enough that Connor makes a sharp noise of displeasure.

“I told you, I have an in-depth understanding of human anatomy. You don’t have to worry.”

Hank hums, using a tone guaranteed to get under Connor’s synth skin. “If you say so,” he says finally, pillowing his cheek on his arms. “You wanna get to it before I die of old age there, boss?”

Connor sighs, a noise he has no reason to make other than to broadcast his annoyance. Hank bites the inside of his cheek to hide a smile. “If you’re unsure about this, Hank…” Connor’s too-smooth hands sweep slowly up and down his scarred, slightly flabby back.

“Oh, come off it, Con. This was your idea, so—”

Without warning, Connor pushes the flat of his palms beneath Hank’s shoulder blades, hard enough to bounce him into his fucking memory foam mattress. Two twin _snaps_ echo through his bones, the muscles in his back finally relaxing as pressure releases from around his spine.

“Hank? Hank, are you okay?” Connor’s hands fly off his back, and without removing his face from the blanket, Hank knows his LED is flashing yellow-red.

“F-fuck, that’s so good.” He slurps back some drool that threatens to leak out of the corners of his lax lips, too preoccupied with not being in pain to make his words any clearer. He rolls his shoulders without hearing his bones click together for the first time in years. “Oh, yeah...”

“Good. Is there anywhere else you would like me to adjust, Hank?” Connor’s hands return, less caressing and more assessing.

“Mm, no.” Hank just want to sink into this mattress and marvel at being both sober and painless.

Typically, Connor hums in understanding and ignores him. He instead prods and pokes at old knots and hurts with such accuracy that Hank isn’t sure if it’s his fancy analytics programming or if he’s just watched Hank so much he knows where Hank keeps all his stresses and tension.

Probably a mix of the two, knowing Connor.

“Not that I’m complaining, but exactly why did I get treated to a fucking spa day, Con?”

He is absolutely not complaining. After dinner, Connor had hinted, then outright told him, and then led him to their bathroom where a steaming bath was waiting for him to soak. (A clean bath. Hank doesn’t think he’s made a real effort to clean the tub since...after.)

  
When he’s satisfied that most of the stress and stiffness have been beaten out of Hank’s back, Connor flops to the side, shoving and snuggling in until he’s wedged under Hank’s arm. Which is, not entirely comfortable. Hank grumbles, shifting himself to the side and tucking Connor fully against his body, chest to chest and legs tangled.

“We have a long day tomorrow.” Connor smiles, his usual coy micro-expression that Hank can read like a favorite book by now. He knows how Connor’s synthetic skin ripples and stretches into that restrained smile and how it feels against his lips.

“Uh-huh, and?” Hank smothers a yawn against the coarse, almost fiberoptic feel of Connor’s hair. They _do_ have a long day tomorrow. It’s house hunting day. Connor goes carefully still - the android version of shifting around guiltily.

He’s long since made it clear that he "dislikes" Hank’s house. The lack of backyard for Sumo, the garage stuffed full of shit Hank hasn’t touched since his divorce. Still flinches, obviously, when he walks into the kitchen and Hank is sitting at the table. (No matter that his gun gets locked in the safe every night and he’s been going easy on the fuckin’ sauce.) It’s still obviously Hank’s house. His pictures on the walls, the same shitty coffee table he got at a garage sale when he and Cole moved in.

“We have a long day tomorrow, that’s all,” Connor repeats, tucking his face into Hank’s neck like the lack of facial expressions will help him lie.

Hank stifles his laughter. It’s fucking mystifying how Connor can threaten perps with a straight face, but he has a hard time lying to Hank in their own home. “Yeah, and what else?”

Connor chooses not to answer for a long moment, long enough that Hank gets the ‘I’m not going to be mad if you just talk to me about it,’ speech ready in his mind. “I wanted to do something nice for you,” he near whispers, definitely guilty.

Hank takes a deep, relaxing breath through his nose. Savagely bites his tongue so he won’t laugh. This is not a laughing matter. “Out with it, Connor.” Stubbornly, Connor remains silent until Hank drags his nails down Connor’s chassis, threatening to dig them into the sensitive synth-skin of his elbow joints.

“Okay! Alright!” Connor yelps, jolting slightly back. “I just wanted you to be in a good mood. In every pre-construction I ran, there was a greater chance of finding a home you would also find acceptable if you started the day happy and relatively pain free.”

This shit again.

Connor is an RK model. He is uniquely built to integrate, adapt, and exert any and all influence in order to achieve his goals.

The downside is, he is also uniquely built to manipulate people in order to accomplish his goals, which is not the greatest of traits in a partnership.

“So, we don’t find the right house tomorrow? We try again.” Hank shrugs, ready and waiting for the small crease that appears neigh instantaneously after the suggestions of Failing Their Shared Goal. Almost two years of being a deviant, and Connor still becomes upset at the thought of Failing His Mission.

“I know that,” Connor says, more than a touch defensively.

Hank reels him close again, slotting their hips together and pressing a chaste kiss to the frowning corner of Connor’s mouth. “Uh-huh. For future reference, this whole schtick you pulled is usually called ‘setting us up for success,’ and you don’t need to hide it.”

“I didn’t want you to think I was manipulating you.”

“You _were_ manipulating me, Con. Just not in a bad way.” He presses another kiss to Connor’s jaw, his nose, the deepening wrinkle between his eyebrows. “Come on, what’s the worst that could happen? You’ve failed before, and the world kept on spinning.”

Connor rolls his eyes so hard, Hank can almost hear his circuitry protest. “Every time,” he complains, snuggling closer despite his bitching. “Will you ever stop bringing up my deviancy to win arguments?”

“Oh, was this an argument? I couldn’t tell, what with all the kissing and cuddling we were doing.” Hank smirks, Connor’s fingers poking and prodding at his back and sides in retaliation. “Besides, I was clearly talking about falling in love with an old fart like me.”

“I want a detached garage.”

“That wasn’t on the list you gave the realtor,” Hank says, blinking at the apparent non sequitur, but trusting Connor to relate it in some way or another.

“You have an attached garage, which is what I assumed you preferred and would want. I was going to make several convincing arguments for a detached garage tomorrow. Because that’s what _I_ want.” Connor’s face is carefully blank, like he isn’t sure what kind of response he’ll get. Like he’s throwing down the fucking gauntlet over a fucking garage.

Hank couldn’t stop the laughter that bubbles up from his gut if he tried. “Shit, yeah. Okay, boss. Whatever you want. We’ll let ‘em know in the morning, okay?”

“Whatever I want?” The side of Connor’s mouth twitches up in one of his crooked smiles, Hank’s favorite, because it’s uneven and goofy and clearly something unique to Connor, rather than programmed in.

“Within reason.”


End file.
